


The Next Move

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-27
Updated: 2011-09-27
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:29:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“All the men either have crew cuts or moustaches,” Sherlock said. “Were we supposed to choose one, at some point?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Next Move

Truth be told, John would have preferred _not_ to receive oral sex in his chair in the sitting room. It wasn’t the act itself that rankled, but the fact that he was seated and Sherlock was kneeling on the floor. He didn’t like being on either side of such a disparity. He preferred being in a bed -- or the sofa might do in a pinch -- where both participants were on the same surface. His rational mind knew that the surface had nothing to do with who was in charge or who had the power, physically or emotionally. But he had his quirks like everyone else, and he stood by them.  
   
Sherlock had quirks, also, but that was not one he shared with John. He happily settled himself in the lower, “subservient” position on the floor, so that he might yank down John’s trousers and get right to work pleasuring him.  
   
And yes, despite John’s qualms about their less-than-ideal arrangement, he was managing to enjoy himself. They’d only recently begun doing these things; there would be plenty of time to spell out preferences as they got more comfortable with each other. John didn’t want Sherlock to think he was too picky ( _I can only have sex on a level surface, on the second Tuesday of the month, assuming the barometric pressure is not too high_ ), and anyway, Sherlock was doing such a good job, it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep a grip on his compunction.  
   
Sherlock understood how to use his hands and mouth in concert, to create an overwhelming abundance of simultaneous stimulation. After the first few times, John was so embarrassed about how quickly he’d come, he’d asked Sherlock to dial it back a notch, draw it out and let him enjoy it a little longer. At the moment, Sherlock was using one hand to merely steady John’s shaft, not stroke it, while he worked just the head with his mouth. John had a plump glans that Sherlock liked to roll in his mouth and suck on, as though it were a sweet. John usually closed his eyes when he received a blow job, and just luxuriated in the sensation, but he always watched when Sherlock employed this technique. He loved to see those soft, wet lips moving all over the head of his cock, making little wet noises as they went.  
   
Sherlock paused and looked up, making eerily direct eye contact. “You’re being too quiet,” he said.  
   
Another thing John had a problem with, besides their not being on the same surface, was the means by which Sherlock had learned about sexual procedure.  
   
“This is real life,” John said, “not one of those videos you saw on the internet. I’m not going to make you choke on it, I’m not going to slap you in the face with it, and I’m _not_ going to call you names.” He gently stroked the side of Sherlock’s face. “I was really enjoying it, I just don’t make a lot of noise, alright?”  
   
Sherlock nodded tentatively and returned to his task, giving the head of John’s cock an apologetic kiss before slipping it back into his mouth. Rather than shove Sherlock down on it, as seemed to be expected of him, John held Sherlock’s free hand and gave it a squeeze. Sherlock did appear to find this encouraging, and began to lick and suck more enthusiastically, taking much more of John’s cock into his mouth now. John thought it couldn’t hurt to try to be a bit more vocal, to please him, so he whispered, “Yes, it’s very good, my love.”  
   
Quiet as he was, John was always polite enough to give a signal when he was close. When the lazy swirls and powerful flicks of Sherlock’s tongue became too much, John whispered, “Here it comes,” and Sherlock happily continued, until he’d swallowed down what John gave him.  
   
Sherlock rested his head on John’s thigh a moment, while John gave a little hum of contentment. Then Sherlock got up to fetch a damp flannel, which he used to clean John’s spit-soaked pubic hair before putting him away and doing up his zip.  
   
“John,” he said conversationally, returning to rest on John’s thigh, “when are we going to do the rest?”  
   
“The rest of what?” John said drowsily.  
   
“You know, the part where we put our penises in each other’s bottoms.”  
   
John was alert again now. “Did you want to do that?”  
   
“Why not?”  
   
“I just want to make sure you understand it’s not a requirement.”  
   
“But it’s fun, isn’t it? I’ve read that it’s a lot of fun.”  
   
Oh, dear. When Sherlock Holmes used the word “fun,” it was time to put on one’s protective eyewear.  
   
“Well,” Sherlock said, “is it?”  
   
“Er…”  
   
“You haven’t done it?”  
   
“I never felt that close to any of the men I’ve been with. That’s a common misconception. People think all gay men do is have anal sex all day long, but actually more of them don’t have it than do. I think I read somewhere that a higher percentage of straight people have anal sex than gay men.”  
   
Sherlock sneered into the middle distance. “Those spoiled heterosexuals, with their plethora of orifices.”  
   
John was just taking a moment to contemplate how he didn’t feel any particular desire to be inside Sherlock’s body that way, when Sherlock said, “Please, John, I promise I’ll be very gentle with you.”  
   
 _Oh_. Sherlock wanted to do it to _him_.  
   
“Come upstairs and I’ll show you something.” Sherlock took John’s hand and pulled him out of the chair and up to the bedroom. There, he felt around under the bed until he found a book, which he showed to John: _The Joy of Gay Sex_.  
   
“This book has been very informative. I’m certain that it’s taught me everything I need to know to have successful anal sex.”  
   
John made an empty gesture of glancing at the book and flipping through the pages. “Is there a chapter about springing the idea on your flatmate while he’s trying to enjoy his post-orgasmic lassitude, luring him into your bed, and -- presumably -- begging him, for an indeterminate amount of time?”  
   
“No, that’s not in the book,” Sherlock said mockingly. “You don’t give me much credit for being inventive, do you?”  
   
John was turning the pages of the book in earnest, now. It had plenty of text but also a lot of illustrations, not too graphic but fairly…illustrative. Sherlock saw John’s eyes lingering with bewilderment at some of the more specifically-attired and -groomed men.  
   
“All the men either have crew cuts or moustaches,” Sherlock said. “Were we supposed to choose one, at some point?”  
   
“No, I don’t think it’s a requirement. It does seem a bit misleading, though. They should put some fine print under each drawing: _Your haircut may vary_.”  
   
Sherlock stopped John when he’d flipped to one particular illustration, toward the end of the book. He pointed at it and said, “That. I want us to be like that.” John sat at the edge of the bed, to examine the page, and Sherlock joined him. The drawing was a simple, intimate scene, just one man penetrating the other. No lassoes, straps, chained-together nipple piercings, or tropical fish, as he’d seen in some of the other illustrations.  
   
John was still feeling ambivalent about being the recipient. He wanted to please Sherlock, but was it really necessary to do it in this manner? He’d had a finger up the bum once or twice, but hadn’t thought much of it. Sherlock’s sudden fascination was intense; John hoped it was also fleeting.  
   
Sherlock was now rubbing himself against John, clutching at the front of John’s shirt and pressing his lips to John’s neck. “Please. Please say yes. I have this really fantastic erection right now and I don’t want it to go to waste.”  
   
“You don’t have to beg. I’ll do it. But -- I'm in charge, alright? If I say stop, we stop, no whinging or making deals.”  
   
“That’s fair.”  
   
“Fine.” John set the book aside. “Now let me see this erection of yours. I’ll be the judge of whether it’s fantastic or not.”  
   
Sherlock undressed, and John looked him over. “That _is_ a pretty impressive one,” he admitted.  
   
“Isn’t it? It’s just as good as the ones I get in the morning, only I don’t have to spoil it by needing to get up to urinate.”  
   
Normally, seeing Sherlock hard like that, John would be more inclined to suck him off whilst wanking himself a little and thinking about the fine cock in his mouth. Tonight, he was seeing it in a new light, undressing with some hesitation while Sherlock looked on hungrily.  
   
Under Sherlock’s admiring gaze, John laid back down on the bed. “You want me on my stomach, like in the picture, yeah?”  
   
“Yes.” Sherlock crouched at the side of the bed for a moment. John heard the rustle of a plastic shopping bag, and then Sherlock came up with a bottle. John examined the label: it was a silicone-based lubricant. He leaned over the edge of the bed.  
   
“Anything else in there I should know about?” he said. “Ropes and pulleys? Produce?” Sherlock ignored him.  
   
The warm, close feeling of Sherlock climbing on top of him was comforting; it brought a modicum of relaxation to his tense body. Sherlock was silent, only his breathing audible as he pressed his chest to John’s back. He exhaled hotly against the shell of John’s ear, sending a shiver all through him. Large, strong hands with long, precise fingers kneaded his shoulders and back. Sherlock expertly massaged the knots there to nothingness, and there was a scattering of kisses, each of which made a tiny wet smacking noise which was pleasing to the ear. John relaxed a bit more, losing track of his anxiety about the imminent future and able to focus only on what was being done in the present moment.  
   
Which, presumably, was Sherlock’s plan. John forgot all about where Sherlock wanted to put those fingers, until the moment when he put them there. From the small of John’s back, Sherlock slid the blade of his hand slowly and smoothly between John’s buttocks, until he could turn his wrist and cup John’s balls. After giving them a gentle squeeze, his hand slid back up until the tips of his fingers touched John’s arsehole, which tightened defensively. John squeezed his eyes shut. Sherlock removed his hand, and when John felt it again, it was slippery.  
   
The lube was cool, but not cold. Sherlock’s fingers were insistent, but didn’t stab. John’s sharp intake of breath, however, seemed to go unnoticed. Sherlock had nobly tried relaxing John, coaxing him, teasing him. But, apparently wanting to get inside him in this lifetime, he was now applying just a tiny bit of brute force.  
   
John doubled his efforts to relax and let Sherlock in, and this time when he bore down, Sherlock’s finger went right up him, making him squeak.  
   
“Ah, there it goes,” Sherlock said, soothingly but really quite pleased with himself. “Honestly, John, I promise you, you’ll soon be ‘drifting on waves of sensual bliss.’ That’s what the book says.”  
   
 _Stuff your bloody book_ , John wanted to say.  
   
Sherlock was working the muscle hard, not bothering with much in-out motion but instead massaging John’s sphincter the way one would massage any stubborn muscle. It took more patience than anyone would give Sherlock Holmes credit for having, but eventually he got three fingers in, and John was squirming beneath him, barely able to parse the sensations he was experiencing.  
   
“Are you ready for me?” Sherlock asked. His teasing tone might have been more effective if John had been more eager in the first place.  
   
“Do it,” John said hoarsely. He sighed with relief when the fingers were removed, though the new feeling of emptiness was its own kind of unpleasant. After some shifting behind him and a low, wet sound of lube being applied, he felt the blunt heat of a cock trying to open him up. Not wanting to prolong the scene with “nudging” and “teasing,” he bore down again, and Sherlock took him up on the offer. With his arms folded under his chest, John clawed at the sheets, his mouth open in a silent cry as Sherlock invaded his body in a series of thrusts, each one a little longer and more lingering than the last. Then, deep inside, a few short prods, one of them resulting in a tiny blossom of pleasure as Sherlock nudged his prostate.  
   
Then, just above his ear, he heard Sherlock’s voice, as deep as always but breathier than usual. “That’s all of it. How does it feel?”  
   
“It feels like...” John considered whether he should tell the truth, or just some of the truth, or be tactful, or just keep silent and soldier on. He finally decided on honesty: “It feels like I need the loo.”  
   
“The book says that’s normal, and to ignore it.”  
   
Fed up, John snapped, “Well tell your damned book that’s easier said than done! -- I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please, continue. I’m sure you’re right.”  
   
It was uncomfortable, but not painful. John braved the initial urges to yell _take it out take it out_ , and spent the remaining time just feeling vaguely like Sherlock wasn’t supposed to be in there. Once in a while he felt a mildly pleasant tingle, when Sherlock found his prostate, but that momentary sweetness did not make all the other discomfort worthwhile.  
   
Behind him, Sherlock seemed to be having a wonderful time. He murmured non-stop about how much he was enjoying John’s snug heat. This did mitigate John’s discomfort, but didn’t make him any less inclined to brainstorm some tricks to get Sherlock off faster. He squeezed his sphincter muscles, pushed back, made drawn-out noises of pleasure. Unfortunately, all of this had the unwanted side effect of making Sherlock believe John was having a right good old time.  
   
“I’m close,” Sherlock said. “Are you close?”  
   
John was not even hard. Well, perhaps a little hard. He thought about his answer before speaking again, trying for the most diplomatic phrase. Finally, he said, “It’s fine. Go ahead and finish. We’ll take care of me later.”  
   
“But…” Sherlock sounded sorrowful and disappointed, even as he continued thrusting. “But I wanted you to drift on waves of sensual bliss.”  
   
John looked over his shoulder. “Are you fucking kidding me.” He gave a nod, and said, “Just go. Honestly. I want you to.”  
   
“Alright, but I promise I’ll finish you right after.” Sherlock picked up his pace a bit, humming with anticipation. He closed his eyes and threw his head back. “John. I want to come inside you. Can I? Would you like that?”  
   
“Yes,” John said, only because he couldn’t imagine that the location of Sherlock’s ejaculation would make a difference as far as clean-up time and effort was concerned.  
   
Then he could feel Sherlock coming inside him. It was more of the same: uncomfortable, in a wet, squidgy way, but not unbearable. And with a little undercurrent of satisfaction -- he did enjoy hearing the sounds Sherlock made, felt some gratification knowing it was him that made Sherlock feel that way.  
   
When Sherlock removed himself, John felt a dribble down the back of his thigh, which soon became a _cold_ dribble down the back of his thigh. He wanted to get up and clean himself first, but Sherlock wouldn’t let him leave. He rolled John onto his back, and set to work immediately on a sweet, enthusiastic blow job, the second one, he realised, of the evening. Sherlock was not discouraged by the feebleness of John’s erection; his warm, sweet mouth quickly brought him to full hardness.  
   
Soreness and squidginess aside, John had had quite a lot of time to build tension within himself, having heard Sherlock’s noises of gratification, having seen the sex-flush and sheen of perspiration on Sherlock’s chest, having felt the small, pleasant nudges inside him. It was only a few short minutes before Sherlock’s talented mouth succeeded at pulling all that tension and confusion from him, leaving him with a feeling of utter well-being, a feeling that overall, things had actually not gone so badly after all.  
   
But now, it was seriously time to get into the shower.

   


   
*****

   
In time, John taught himself to come while Sherlock fucked him -- he stroked himself through it, focusing on the wank and ignoring the penetration, coming despite the discomfort.  
   
Why couldn’t Sherlock -- who solved crimes by examining the dirt in the nose-pieces of people’s eyeglasses -- perceive that John didn’t enjoy this kind of sex? Surely such a brilliant mind could tell the difference between a heart-rate increased by anxiety and one increased by pleasure? A grunt of discomfort from one of encouragement? John concluded that Sherlock must know, and therefore simply did not care. This was upsetting, and he found himself increasingly dreading Sherlock’s advances, lest they lead to that particular act. (Though the oral activities continued to be delightful.)  
   
Sherlock, for his part, thought the sex was fantastic. It was a little different each time and never boring. He always had new things to think about during it. He enjoyed measuring the friction and pressure on the shaft and head of his penis, the lubrication, and the heat of John’s body, and then relaying all those measurements to his brain. And he could feel the response: his brain telling his body to send more blood to his already spectacularly engorged penis. The nerve endings becoming more sensitive, the energy in his spinal cord. He enjoyed all those nerve impulses building up, reinforcing themselves. Then, when the pressure could build no more and needed to be released, and his body drove itself forward, he enjoyed the obliteration of his consciousness so that involuntary muscle contractions and the sexual sensory pathways of his nervous system could do their work.  
   
It was a constant delight. Well, perhaps not _constant_. But Sherlock initiated the act once or twice a week -- whenever it would not interrupt The Work, of course -- and for two glorious months, John received his overtures quite amicably. But then one day, John was in bed, on his belly with a pillow under him, engrossed in a novel, when a naked and ready Sherlock came up behind and made his usual preliminary gestures: a kiss on the back of the neck, a palm cupping one delectably round buttock. John had his guard down, and his reaction -- an annoyed grunt -- was sincere and undiplomatic. Sherlock was stunned.  
   
“You don’t want to? You always seem to want to.”  
   
John sighed, in a dutiful sort of way, and flipped the book over, still open so he wouldn’t lose his page. “No, it’s good, it’s lovely.” He stretched out, offered himself. “Go on, have at it.”  
   
Sherlock pulled away, until not a part of him was touching John. “When you lie to me, it insults us both,” he said coldly.  
   
“Okay, so it’s not that great.” John rolled over to face him. “But it’s not terrible. I _want_ to like it, I really do. And I know how much you _do_ like it, and I want to make you happy.”  
   
Sherlock seemed to shrink, his face a withering mixture of disappointment and shame. He had willfully ignored what now seemed embarrassingly obvious. He could read the wear on the elbow of a jacket, but he had been unable to read John’s apparent enthusiasm for what it actually was: grudging tolerance.  
   
“This is upsetting,” he said, though of all things, he didn’t precisely sound _upset_. “It was my understanding that this was a very pleasurable act for both participants. I was even looking forward to switching roles, so I could try it out myself. But if it’s really so dreadful for the recipient…”  
   
“I don’t want you to feel bad,” John said. “I thought in time I’d get to like it better, and, okay, I didn’t, but everyone is different. We all work differently. Obviously this sort of thing has a lot of fans. I honestly think I’m just exceptional. We could still at least try it the other way round. What harm could it do?”  
   
Sherlock was less than enthusiastic about it now, but shrugged an assent. “Come here and lie down with me, then,” John said. “We’ll go slow.” His hands darted beneath the covers to pull his boxers off, and then he took Sherlock into his arms, and they lay facing each other on their sides. They nestled together under the blankets, gazing at each other while they pressed their bellies together. John felt the warm, soft length of Sherlock’s cock stirring into something more, and reached to cup one pliant buttock to draw him closer. Just this was quite enjoyable. John could do this all the time. Sherlock’s body heat was already making it too hot under the blankets.  
   
From where it lay on Sherlock’s behind, the next move for John’s hand came quite naturally; he placed one dry but gentle fingertip on Sherlock’s opening. The reaction was immediate: a surprised little “Ooh,” and a tilt of Sherlock’s bum towards the finger. John continued to press softly around the whole area.  
   
“Good?”  
   
“Very nice. It feels very…private.”  
   
John could tell by Sherlock’s expression that he’d never been touched that way before, and was finding it extremely interesting. “Do you want me to try to go inside?”  
   
“Oh, yes. Please.”  
   
John took his fingers away just long enough to spit on them, then slid them back wetly between Sherlock’s cheeks. “If this goes well, and we want to get more involved, we’ll get the lube out.”  
   
“Uh-huh.” Sherlock was already breathless.  
   
John pressed around Sherlock’s opening with his slippery fingers until he found a place where there seemed to be more give. He pushed gently but firmly, until suddenly he breached the ring of muscle and his whole finger slid in. Sherlock moaned and bit John’s shoulder savagely, trying to swear at the same time. It came out sounding like “-- _ukhk_.”  
   
Sherlock’s body clenched powerfully around the root of John’s finger, trying in vain to pull more of it inside. John’s fingertip, meanwhile, explored tentatively. The tissue deeper inside had no muscles to squeeze him, but it was smooth and sensitive, and Sherlock responded beautifully to every probe of the fingertip. John had no problems finding the most sensitive of places; it felt like a little walnut-sized bit of gristle inside Sherlock, and being a doctor, John couldn’t help but note that it felt perfectly healthy. Though that thought was fleeting, in the face of Sherlock’s unbearably erotic groaning and twisting. He was calling John’s name, over and over, his helpless reaction so ridiculously disproportionate to the one slender finger inside him. When John tried to slowly pull it away, Sherlock shoved back to take it in again.  
   
“Calm down,” John said. “What did I say? We’re going to get the lube now, and do this properly.”  
   
Reluctantly, and with lots of pouting for good measure, Sherlock let John go for a moment. John took the lube from the bedside table. When he turned back, he found Sherlock on his back, spread out on the mattress with his knees up, just enough so John could see everything.  
   
Sherlock said, “Hurry.”  
   
John’s slick fingers found Sherlock’s hole very welcoming. It took two slippery digits with ease, while Sherlock, like a completely separate entity, gasped and cooed like it was all as much a surprise to him as it was to John.  
   
They were still only in the preparatory stage, but John was definitely starting to see the appeal of this particular activity. When he’d been on the other side of this equation, it had felt like…nothing. Pointless. Now it felt so sweet and intense. It might only have been two fingers, but it was still him, inside Sherlock’s body.  
   
“Please John, now. Now.”  
   
John heard a little voice in the back of his mind, meekly suggesting that he tease Sherlock, draw out his beautiful, eager anticipation. He ignored this voice, electing instead to mount Sherlock, pause just long enough to aim himself, and then let Sherlock’s greedy arsehole devour every inch of his cock.

As soon as he’d done this, though, he wished he could start that part over, make a meal of it. He tried to make up for it by concentrating on what was going on at the present moment: the damp heat of Sherlock’s thighs against his own, the little sob that escaped Sherlock’s lips each time his muscles squeezed involuntarily around John’s cock.  
   
“How does that feel?” John said as he began to give Sherlock little shallow strokes. He didn’t expect an answer, as it seemed that Sherlock hadn’t heard him over his own moans. But Sherlock sucked in a breath and tried to quiet himself long enough to grind out a few words whilst John thrust inside him.  
   
“ _Unh_ , it feels like…like everything…it’s… _unh_ …it’s like you’re touching… _ohhh_ inside…Go deeper, John. Deeper, please!”  
   
“I can’t go any deeper. That’s all I’ve got.”  
   
Sherlock straightened his legs and then nudged John’s arms until he got the hint and raised himself up so Sherlock could rearrange himself and put his ankles on John’s shoulders. Just in trying to resume his original position, John unintentionally plunged his cock deeper inside Sherlock than it had yet been, and they both felt a powerful stab of surprise and pleasure.  
   
John got carried away on this jolt, and fell into an instinctive rhythm of great long thrusts, sometimes with an extra little push when he was in to the hilt. Sherlock’s entire body proved extremely responsive: his fingers clawed at John’s back, his toes curled, his cock jerked and released generous strands of pre-come as he stroked it. His eyes were sometimes wide, sometimes tightly shut. His mouth opened in a continuous, nearly-silent cry. His sex-flush spread from his chin to his belly, his sheen of sweat serving to define his straining muscles.  
   
John’s eyes and skin received this data and transmitted it to his muddled brain, which could relay only one message in response: _Sherlock got this way by being shagged vigorously. To increase satisfaction, continue shagging vigorously in order that he might get_ more _this way_.  
   
When he realised what a pounding he was going to receive, Sherlock stopped touching himself, instead using both hands to brace himself against the headboard.  
   
“Are you close?” John said.  
   
Sherlock was wriggling desperately, enticingly. “I don’t…It’s too good. I don’t want to come. I can’t make myself come. I want it to last. If you want me to come you’ll have to make me do it.”  
   
“--oh God--”  
   
“Force me to come. You have to.”  
   
“I will. Just-- _oh_ \--” Sherlock’s words made John curl in on himself. He got his knees more firmly under him, so he could keep his weight on one hand and stroke Sherlock’s prick with the other.  
   
With each thrust, John momentarily bounced Sherlock’s legs up and off his shoulders. Sherlock’s palms were braced flat on the headboard, barely keeping him from crashing right through as John ploughed him. Stroke after stroke ended with the impact of John’s cock against Sherlock’s prostate, and Sherlock’s screams were reduced to hoarse wheezes as he finally tipped over the edge. John breathed a sigh of relief when he felt Sherlock’s whole body going rigid. He let go at last, allowing himself to be taken by his own orgasm as Sherlock convulsed beneath him.  
   
Sherlock continued to twitch long after John’s arms and legs gave out and he collapsed. After a moment of lying bonelessly atop him, John felt Sherlock’s arms slowly come to wrap around him, and hold him. John was struck by this new, novel tenderness; for all that he and Sherlock had been having loads of sex and so on, this had never been done. Sherlock had never before held a woozy, post-orgasmic John in his arms as they lay in bed together. John wanted to return the favour by at least trying not to rest on Sherlock so heavily…but he failed utterly, unable to move a muscle.  
   
Sherlock didn’t seem to mind. “I’ve got an idea,” he said, after a great silence. “You know how I don’t like being all…sweaty.”  
   
“Yes, I know.”  
   
“Why don’t you give me a bath. I want you to wash every bit of me and make me feel completely clean and brand new, and then I want you to give it to me again.”  
   
“I don’t know if I can.”  
   
“Well, how about just fingering me in the bath.”  
   
“Sherlock, I can’t _feel_ my fingers right now. Can I not have ten more minutes to lie here in a coma?”  
   
Silence, for fifteen seconds. Then:  
   
“John.”  
   
“ _Yes, what is it?_ ”  
   
Sherlock put his mouth to John’s ear and whispered something. There was barely an exhalation as he spoke. It was more like John could feel Sherlock’s lips forming the words.  
   
“Oh.” John’s expression softened when he’d got what Sherlock was saying. “Yes,” he replied. “I am, as well.”  
   


   


*****

   
   
From that point on, Sherlock and John fucked with the ferocity of two people desperate to make up for lost time and past mistakes.  
   
Sherlock seemed built to take cock. John had long perceived Sherlock’s mouth to be of the eager variety, but his arsehole was just as greedy, taking everything fed into it and milking it energetically. He had those long arms and legs to wrap around John and draw him in closer. And John didn’t know which deity Sherlock had pleased to get this arrangement, but his sensitive prostate appeared to be positioned in such a way that it was only about as difficult to locate as the nose on his face.  
   
John was quite content, feeling that after several months of intimacy they’d finally found their groove. Now all that was left was to spend the next thirty or forty years having excellent sex.  
   
Sherlock was not so easily satisfied. He was certain that there was more to it, or ought to be. An “eleven” on the dial.  
   


   


*****

   
   
John was still reading that same stupid novel. Sherlock had no idea why. If _he_ were compelled to read something so insipid as a contemporary novel, he’d make every effort to get through it as quickly as possible, rather than prolong the awful experience.  
   
And anyway, Sherlock had something much more interesting to show him. John did not lift his eyes from the page as Sherlock undressed and got in bed. He continued to be determined not to have the chapter disrupted when Sherlock spread himself out tantalisingly on his belly, legs wide enough apart that one hung off the bed and the other was nudging John’s ankle.  
   
 “John. _John_.” Sherlock wiggled his behind. “Have a look.”  
   
“Seen it.” John turned the page.  
   
“ _Have a look_.”  
   
“Fuck’s sake,” John muttered. He put the book down, and got on his knees to lean over and look at where Sherlock was pointing at himself: between his parted thighs.  
   
Sherlock was never a particularly hirsute gentleman, but what a difference it made when even a sparse distribution of hair was removed. From his balls, across his perineum, to his delicate pink arsehole, the sight of all that vulnerable flesh so smooth and meticulously depilated was breathtaking.  
   
 _He couldn’t have done this himself_ , John thought, _not with a razor_. It was too perfect; every hair had vanished while the skin was left supple and unscathed.

Seemingly able to read his thoughts, Sherlock said, “I went to a spa and had it done while you were at work yesterday. Do you like it?”  
   
John was struck by a pang of jealousy. As he stroked the silky skin of Sherlock’s arse, he thought, _Someone else was touching_ my _property? And was paid for the privilege?_  
   
Then he had another minor panic attack, which made him forget his envy. “You didn’t...” With some alarm, he reached beneath Sherlock and had a feel. “You didn’t have it _all_ done, did you?” He sighed with relief when his fingers caught the familiar springy fuzz around Sherlock’s cock.  
   
“That was suggested. But I didn’t think you were a fan of the ‘last chicken in the shop’ look, so I declined. Isn’t it lovely? It’s unbelievably sensitive. I could not have imagined that taking the hair away would have so powerful an effect, but you could probably breathe on it and I’d come like a rocket and pass out.”  
   
John rolled his eyes. “Goodness, how did you know that was my wildest fantasy.” He couldn’t maintain any semblance of irony for long, though. God, it looked so clean and pink and fresh. It looked like it tasted like soap. John wanted to eat Sherlock’s arse so badly, it was literally breathtaking. He was panting as he laid himself down between Sherlock’s thighs.  
   
The loose skin of Sherlock’s balls quickly tightened. John lapped at them, smooth and firm and round like ripe fruit. He tried to spread Sherlock wider between every lick. He gave the gentlest of nips, just where each buttock became fatty enough to get some flesh between his teeth. Sherlock slipped his hand under himself so that with each involuntary roll of his hips, he could push his aching cock through his fist.  
   
Every inch of that smooth, pink skin was exquisitely responsive, not to mention the muscles beneath. Everywhere John’s tongue-tip caressed, beneath it he felt a quivering, or a clenching or relaxing, accompanied by Sherlock’s delighted sighs and gasps. When he switched to laving Sherlock’s perineum with the flat of his tongue, Sherlock’s moans became continuous, until there was a grunt and a shaking of the bed, as Sherlock came quite suddenly.  
   
John gave him a few more long, slow licks, until Sherlock was shivering and begging, “No more, oh God, please.” John crawled up Sherlock’s body, resting his wet chin between Sherlock’s shoulder-blades and slotting his hard cock in that slickened space.  
   
“I certainly haven’t enjoyed every surprise you’ve ever sprung on me,” John said, “but this time I must say you did exceptionally well.”  
   
“I had a good feeling about it. But you know…” Sherlock’s tone changed from pleased-with-himself to matter-of-fact. “It’s a very delicate place to be tampering with. It will require lots of maintenance. I’ll need to be oiled and powdered regularly, to keep things in tip-top condition. You’ll help me, won’t you?”  
   
“Gladly,” said John. “Your undercarriage will be the envy of London.”  
   
“Wonderful. Let’s start now. There’s a bag down there somewhere,” Sherlock gestured vaguely at the entire floor. “It’s got all the things in it that the woman at the spa gave me.”  
   
John had a look around until he found it, a glossy shopping bag complete with a frivolous ribbon round the handles and diaphanous gift paper. Inside he found a soothing gel of the aloe vera variety, a bottle of tea tree oil -- likely included for its antibacterial properties -- and a tin of some ridiculously expensive brand of talcum powder, when anything off the shelf at Tescos would have done.  
   
The oil came first. It smelled comfortingly camphoraceous, and made Sherlock’s skin glow. The gel was cool and slick, and Sherlock sighed with contentment as it was applied. John made sure that both the oil and the gel were worked into every surface, carefully rubbing each in so that not even the tiniest patch of skin was neglected. And if perhaps one or both of these soothing substances was over-applied, resulting in a litany of varied coos and giggles and some delightfully ticklish wriggling, well, that was only because John cared so much for Sherlock’s well-being, wasn’t it?  
   
The powder came last; it was scented, and a burst of talc clouded the air over the bed as John gently patted it into Sherlock’s skin. “That was lovely,” Sherlock said as John replaced the tins in the bag. “Now, there’s just one more thing I need.”  
   
John was of the same mind. He had tasted it with his tongue and pampered it with patient hands. His cock was tired of waiting; now it wanted its chance to sample Sherlock’s goods.  
   
He was slightly concerned about the effect of the relentless pounding and friction that Sherlock’s tender arse was about to suffer, so when he took up the bottle of lube he squirted a ludicrous amount into his palm before smearing it generously up and down Sherlock’s cleft, bringing back the shining slickness that the powder had taken away. The moment he plunged two fingers in, Sherlock began to bawl, “I’m ready now. Do it now.”  
   
“Get up on your knees,” John said. Sherlock complied, presenting his pampered arse but keeping his shoulders on the mattress and continuing to rest his head on his hands.  
   
John watched Sherlock’s cock swaying heavily between his legs for a moment. Then, for good measure, he gave Sherlock’s balls a single long, slow tug with his slippery hand. “One day,” he said, “I’ll have the patience to resist your charms, and give you more of a tease. One day, you’ll beg and squeal for this, and I’ll find the strength to keep you begging and squealing for _hours_.”  
   
“I’m dreading that day, I assure you,” Sherlock said, with not a hint of dread in his voice.  
   
John’s hands left Sherlock’s vicinity, so that he could apply some more lube to himself. Sherlock, impatient but momentarily back in his right mind, immediately became bored and started chattering. “You know what I love?” he said.  
   
“I hope it’s a nice cock in your arse, because that’s what you’re getting.”  
   
“I love coming before you fuck me, because you’re going to try to make me come again. The second time is much sweeter. It’s so good it _aches_. It feels like syrup in my veins. The closer I get to coming a second time, the harder it seems to be to get there, but the harder it is, the more I want it.”  
   
John instructed Sherlock to spread his legs wider, lower himself a touch, so John could adjust his angle and more easily follow the curve of his rectum.  
   
Sherlock refused to even wait for John to give it to him; as soon as he felt the hot, wet press of the head, he pushed back ferociously, his body swallowing John’s prick whole.  
   
As John worked to find his rhythm, Sherlock played with his own cock, though judging by how he was slamming his pelvis back against John’s, that seemed to be his secondary source of pleasure. He squeezed the girth of John’s prick with his arse, probably more for his own sake than John’s, as coming a second time took much concentration and effort on his part.  
   
Meanwhile, John held desperately on as Sherlock rocked wildly back and forth on his cock, trying to gain some semblance of control, slipping and sliding in and out of Sherlock’s arse. “God, I can’t believe how incredible this feels. I don’t mean to rush you, but I really need you to come, so I can.”  
   
Sherlock was not exactly making noises of pleasure; now they seemed more like noises of struggle. “I want to. I want to.”  
   
“I know you do, my love. I can see how hard you’re working.”  
   
Sherlock’s lungs forced out the most undignified, alien groans, which changed constantly in pitch and intensity.  
   
“Come on,” John said. “Come on, show me what your body can do.”  
   
Sherlock squeezed and tugged at himself until finally he screamed with sweet agony, and a single clear, fat drop trickled from the slit of his cock. He gave a great shiver, and his arsehole clenched around John’s cock one last time; the poor muscle was barely able to spasm for how hard it had worked tonight.  
   
John leaned down to wrap his arms around Sherlock and hold him tight until the shivers subsided. “Satisfied, darling?” He said smugly. “Is two enough for you?”  
   
“Mmm, for now,” Sherlock said dreamily. He started to lower himself down onto the mattress. John tugged at his hips to keep him still.  
   
“Stay up here. I’m not done with you yet.”  
   
With Sherlock sated, John could see to his own pleasure. Not that pleasing Sherlock hadn’t felt fantastic, but simply using a partner’s body to make himself come made him feel selfish and wicked and turned on, and he only indulged when he was sure the other person had been thoroughly gratified.  
   
He slowly slid his cock almost all the way out, just to where the crown caught on Sherlock’s rim. Then he pushed back in again, keeping his strokes shallow, making that ring of muscle stimulate the most sensitive parts of his cock.  
   
John continued in that manner, letting the head of his cock become increasingly sensitive as he neared orgasm and giving it all the stimulation it craved, until he started to come, at which point he pulled it out entirely, but kept it pressed against the slick hot flesh, spurting over it. As the hard pulses subsided, he gently rubbed the leaking slit around and around in little circles, then finally used the head to gather some of his spunk and push it back inside Sherlock’s body. He was too sensitive and it hurt a little, but he wanted it anyway, and did it with great relish, while Sherlock breathed hard and swayed weakly.  
   
There was a brief, intense moment, when John wished he could immediately come again, so he could continue to defile Sherlock’s smooth pink crevice with more of his spunk. But as his orgasm faded, the vicious urge passed, and then he wanted only to have a bit of a lie-down.  
   
Oh, but he needed a piss, and Sherlock needed cleaning up, and the sheets would have to be changed…  
   
Seeming to read his mind, Sherlock said, “Those things can all wait just five minutes. Lie here with me awhile. I shall feel silly when you get up and leave me here alone with my thoughts.”  
   
John collapsed at Sherlock’s side. He didn’t have the energy to speak, at the moment, but he made a silent vow to himself, and resolved to repeat it to Sherlock later, when he felt more able: for as long as he was allowed to, he would happily spoil and pamper that perfect arse -- oil it, powder it, massage it, lick it, kiss it, bite it, fuck it, spank it, whatever Sherlock wanted.  
   
Hmm. Spanking it. Sherlock had not asked him to do that. Why had that popped into his head?  
   
“Stop. Thinking.” Sherlock said.


End file.
